Through you comes nostalgia, smothering me like a glow,
Similar to the moon I might say, which conceals its shine in various ways,
For this moment, I am blinded by neither reality nor imagination,
But from the glass of liquor that chants our stories.
Disillusion wraps itself around the clumsy bond between us, at least for a few hours,
From my mind to my heart with reasons to love you; with reasons to face you.
Is the spinning ceiling speaking or the shaking ground, or perhaps just candle flames,
Not to say cigarettes, as smoking feels like thunder when what heals me is rain drops.
Don’t depart, the best is yet to come since its time for me to recite; recite our trash,
Except at that time it was refreshing candour but now freckles of dispute.